


Mistaken for Strangers

by Nymphalidae



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Cannibalism, M/M, Role Reversal, Serial Killer!Will, cannibal!will, dark!Will, profiler!hannibal, psychiatrist!will
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-27
Updated: 2013-07-16
Packaged: 2017-12-16 08:26:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/860030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nymphalidae/pseuds/Nymphalidae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Role reversal AU: Hannibal Lecter is a criminal profiler with the FBI sent to see the brilliant psychiatrist Dr. Graham when his empathy gets out of control, and he struggles with reality.  **ON HIATUS**</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I really wanted to write this after seeing many requests on tumblr for such a fic. Right now I don't know what's going to happen, I only have a very loose idea for the plot, but it will involve porn, I can guarantee that. So this first chapter is just me sort of testing the waters, so my apologies if it's a little rough, but I had it in my head and just wanted to get it out. It's my first fic in a while, and first for this fandom.  
> Fic name is from the song of the same name by The National.

He has his orders, orders very firmly delivered with all excuses and exit routes barred, and he had no choice but to follow them. A psychiatrist. He loathed psychiatrists, loathed the way they psychoanalysed him and twisted his words to suit their interpretation of his twisted mind. They were never accurate, never right, never pleasant experiences. Or even bearable, he'd even take bearable, just an easy session he could cope with before hightailing it out of there. 

But there was no such thing, in his experience, as a psychiatrist he could cope with. Their manipulative words were like phantom fingers violating his mind and sifting through everything unpleasant in there, dragging their nails as they did so to leave fresh wounds that never quite healed over. They delighted in delving into the darkest, dankest recesses of his complicated mind to unearth his flaws and prod at them incessantly, serving only to remind him just how damaged he was. 

He was beyond nervous already. The building was imposing, a grand three story affair that must have cost more than he could hope to make in his lifetime. It certainly put his little house in Wolf Trap to shame. He had seen many a psychiatrist in his life and none had had their office in their own home, let alone a home as beautiful as this. He'd entered through the clients door at the rear of the house and was currently in a waiting room that adjoined the actual office, but even this room was immaculately presented.

He sat awkwardly on a fine black leather armchair. On the glass and chrome table in front of him were a couple of psychology magazines and the latest copy of National Geographic. Of course, gossip rags would be misplaced amidst such grandeur. It would spoil the effect.

He couldn't hear anything through the door, which he supposed was good, because if he had to talk here he didn't want whichever neurotic soul was holding the next appointment slot to be able to hear him through the door. Or maybe there was nobody in there, he was early after all. He checked his watch; five minutes before his allocated time. Something told him that even if there was nobody pouring their heart out in there, his psychiatrist was the type of person to adhere to appointment times to that last second. 

He grabbed at the magazine on top of the stack and thumbed through it without absorbing any of the information. It passed the time and distracted him a little, even as he damned Jack under his breath for sending him here. 

“Hannibal Lecter?” 

He looked up, startled. He hadn't heard the door open. Even the hinges were well-maintained in the old building. 

“Uh, yeah,” he replied, standing up and tossing the magazine onto the table. The eyes of his psychiatrist – his male psychiatrist, he hadn't been certain as all he had was the name Dr Graham – tracked the careless motion with subtle distaste. He would have righted what seemed to be a terrible wrong, but felt that would be awkward, and the last thing he needed was more of that. 

“Please, come inside,” Dr Graham held the door open, standing just so to give him enough room to enter but still be at uncomfortably close quarters as he did so. 

His hand accidentally brushed against Dr Graham's thigh, glancing off the expensive material of his exquisitely tailored charcoal suit. He heard a rush of air, a sharp inhale, and thought that the doctor either disapproved of the accidental clumsy touch, or was smelling him or something. People didn't smell other people, though, so he felt the back of his neck heat in shame that he had already managed to irritate the doctor.

The door closed behind him, but this time he heard it, a soft whoosh of air followed by a gentle click. No creaking. 

“Have a seat,” Dr Graham invited, sweeping his hand in a graceful arc to indicate the twin chairs facing each other. There was a comfortable distance between the two, around ten feet, which was relieving. He hated when psychiatrists presumed that intimacy bred confidence.  
His eyes swept the room, taking in the hundreds of books, the masculine but elegant décor, the impressive oak desk with the wing-back chair behind it. The room was huge, and he felt very small inside it, in the presence of a man so clearly put-together he was embarrassed at himself and his own inadequacies. He thought that, at forty-five, he would be past comparing himself to others, but Dr Graham stood in his immaculate suit, the clean cut lines skimming his fit body, his cool eyes regarding him with a professional, detached curiosity, and he felt pathetic in comparison. 

It didn't help that he was at least decade older than his psychiatrist, by the looks of the man's smooth, unlined face and flawless porcelain skin. He either took excellent care of himself and had had a bit of tweaking here and there, or he was genetically blessed and a lot younger than Hannibal assumed. 

He chose a chair and flopped down into it, Dr Graham taking the other, seating himself gracefully, long legs folding down with control, crossing at the knee, hands held loosely in his lap. 

“You were referred to me by Jack Crawford. He seems to think that the cases you have been working as a profiler on have affected you deeply on a psychological level. He expressed great concern for your well-being, and asked that I profile his profiler,” Dr Graham said. Hannibal already knew everything except for the profiling bit. 

“He sent me to be psychoanalysed, didn't he?” Hannibal asked, though the question was rhetoric, Dr Graham's head inclined ever so slightly, his carefully styled curls shifting and catching the sunlight that filtered through the voile at the tall windows.

“I thought it only fair to give you warning, given that you have such an abhorrence of psychoanalysis.”

“Well, thank you, I do, and I don't plan on sitting here and letting you analyse me. I've had enough of that. Everyone has some addition to make, some speculation, some advised treatment or prescription. I don't want any diagnoses, I think I'm past that now, and I'm not taking any pills,” Hannibal refused vehemently, figuring it best to get that part out of the way.

“What makes you think I want to diagnose you with anything, or prescribe you any medications? You're simply here to talk to me, and I am here to listen and offer guidance, that is all,” Dr Graham's cool composure had Hannibal feeling less than cool. He was flustered by it. He felt like a fool in his presence.

“Everyone tries to be the one to put a name to whatever it is that makes me like this, everyone tries to find the right cocktail of pills to control it.”

“I have no desire to label you with anything, Hannibal.”

“But Jack asked you to analyse me,” he pointed out.

“Yes, he did, but you are my concern, his desires are not. You're struggling at work, and Jack has assumed that this conflict extends to your personal life. I want to help you, that's all,” he shrugged his shoulders as if that was that, it was so easy, so simple, and Hannibal wondered if it really was, if sat before him was a man who truly did just want to help make his life a little easier. It would be a first. 

“Oh, well, I guess, um...” he verbally flailed. If he was capable of maintaining eye contract for longer than a few milliseconds he might have seen the amusement in the doctors blue eyes. As it was, he did not.

“So, would you like to talk about it?” Dr Graham asked. He had a natural, non-threatening authority to him, in his voice, his stance, his mien. He also exuded tranquility, and Hannibal felt it wash over him now that he had calmed down somewhat, his defensive front ebbing slightly. 

“Jack told you what I do, right?” he asked, wondering how much he would have to explain, wondering how much his vocal chords could take. Explaining was the hardest part. 

“You work in the Behavioural Sciences Unit as a criminal profiler and teach at Quantico. You tried to be an agent but were deemed mentally unstable and unfit for the job, and so took your position teaching. Jack calls on you for the more delicate cases that have the other profilers confounded, because you possess the unique ability to empathise completely with criminals and see through their eyes. Rather than see them through your own and profile them, you see as if you are them. You struggle to separate yourself from the criminals you allow into your mind and it is impeding on your life,” Dr Graham explained it effortlessly, as if it were so simple it could be reduced to a few well-constructed sentences. It was almost insulting, that he could trim down what controlled him so intensely into an easy summary.

“In a nutshell, yes,” he answered after the silence stretched on for an inappropriate length of time. 

“What you have is pure empathy. Most of us, we empathise with others by drawing on our own remembered experiences to understand somebody else's feelings, but you, you can empathise with anyone, and you do so completely. It's truly remarkable, but while it may hold fascination for me, I can tell it bears nothing but difficulty for you.”

“You're a psychiatrist, you spend your time figuring out peoples minds, just like I do. Only, I have to figure out the minds of some of the most insane men in the country. I have to be insane to help stop the insanity. I have my own crazy, and now I'm keeping hold of some of theirs. I'm losing sight of what's me and what is them. I can't stop seeing.”

Dr Graham observed him silently for long moments, and Hannibal noticed that while he had been shifting in his seat, waving his hands around and basically fidgeting like an anxious lab rat, the doctor hadn't moved at all. His hands were in the same place in his lap, his legs still crossed at the same angle. His composure irritated Hannibal, who could barely keep himself together. He was conflicted: while the calm that his doctor presented was influential, it was also irksome. He thought that if he had to attend more sessions, he might relax enough to let the serenity become a temporary part of him, although the doctors quiet zen was one thing he'd be happy to keep, in return for the insanity that was a plague in his mind.

“Empathy is a strange thing. Typically, people do not feel somebody else's emotions, they just compare them to their own, but you don't do that, which is why you are such a commodity.”

“I'm not a possession,” Hannibal retorted.

“No, you are not, but that is how Jack sees you. A fine china cup to be used for special guests.”

“I'm not a – a cup. I'm a person.”

“We're speaking metaphorically, Hannibal. Please do not take insult, it is not my intention,” it sounded like an apology, but at the same time, it didn't.

He begrudgingly gave his acceptance, though. Anything to move past metaphors. 

“It seems to me that what you have is of great value to the FBI, but at a great price to your own peace of mind. Which is worth more? To me, it is your own mind. It would not do for you to lose control of it for the sake of others. Helping people is admirable, and that is ultimately what you do, you help a great many people by catching these killers, but you need to help yourself, too. Even if you do not care for your own well-being, think of it like this: your well-being is the well-being of the thousands that you help by doing what you do.”  
“I do care about myself,” Hannibal shot back. Dr Graham was insinuating he was self-destructive. He'd head it before.

“I don't doubt that you do, but I think you're putting everyone else before you, and while that is admirably selfless, it's also dangerous.”  
“What do you suggest then, doctor?” he asked.

“We find away to contain your empathy. If possible, teach you to still see with your unique vision, but put up a barrier between you and the criminals you see as. Learn to see temporarily. Your mind is porous and we need to stop you from absorbing so much.”

“How do you suggest we do that?”

“I have a few ideas,” Dr Graham smiled, the first time he had done so. It was only a slight twist in his pink lips that didn't quite reach his eyes, but it was a very lovely smile nonetheless.

***

The ride home took him over an hour because of traffic, and he had to stop by a pet store on the way to buy cat food. Hannibal had a growing number of cats that he had collected over the years, starting with Delilah fifteen years ago. Delilah was a tortoiseshell moggy he'd found at a rescue shelter when she was just one year old. She had a missing ear that had been surgically removed due to cancer, apparently common in cats with light coloured ears like hers. Now he daubed sunscreen on her remaining white ear daily, just to be sure. She was an affectionate little thing, getting slow in her old age but still able to keep the other cats in line with a swift swipe to the nose. 

The others migrated to his house over the years. All of them were strays, except for Dorian, who had been in a cardboard box with other kittens for sale, two teenagers flogging them to anyone who would take them for twenty bucks each. 

Dorian had been sickly, the runt of the litter, and Hannibal could tell he wouldn't make it through the day, so he gave the kids a twenty and took the poor thing home. He nursed him himself, feeding him every few hours by hand with formula from a pipette. He wasn't old enough to have been weened from his mother, his eyes not even open yet, but Hannibal's love and dutiful attention had him quickly gaining weight and growing up into a boisterous little tom cat who pestered Delilah incessantly. She had a soft spot for the little black ball of fur, though, just like he did. 

Altogether there were six of them. Delilah, Dorian, Basil, Amber, Jynx, and Oz. His family of strays, who slept on his head and shoved wet noses into his face when they wanted feeding. They brought him gifts from their hunting excursions, soggy mice and mangled birds, and the occasional living thing that had to be chased out of the house and finally, mercifully killed by one of the cats. 

He loved them all though, his feline family. Cats were gorgeous creatures, he understood why the Egyptians had worshipped them. He appreciated their independence, that unlike dogs, they didn't rely on you so fully. He respected the cats. They didn't technically need him but they chose to come home to him every night for a cuddle and a catnip-filled toy mouse. He didn't want the unconditional love a dog could offer; he liked that his cats would get pissy with him sometimes, the sassy things. 

At home, Delilah was curled up in her radiator bed. She lifted her head to meow a greeting and Jynx, a tabby he'd found being harassed by kids in an alley way, darted out from under the bed to rub around his legs, purring like a motorcycle. Hannibal smiled and reached down to scratch him behind the ears, balancing the paper bag containing their food on his hip. 

“Hello to you, too,” he smiled, taking the bag to the kitchen and making the universal noise for attracting cats to you. Sure enough, four of them appeared meowing at his feet. They knew better than to jump up onto the counter as he filled dishes with food and water. Oz and Basil were missing, presumably out hunting in the night. 

He fed himself when the cats were sorted, reheating leftovers from yesterday and eating them in silence at the table as he thought over his session with Dr Graham.

He wasn't sure what to think of the man. He wasn't sure if he could like him, or trust him, but that applied to everyone in his life. He did, however, have some respect for him. He had suggested ways to help him, rather than suggest he quit his job and retire to a quiet place away from serial killers and insanity. He understood that Hannibal was fine with his life, just not the lives of others influencing him. He had suggested they meet weekly for psychotherapy sessions, but had given him his card with contact details should he need to talk.

Dr Graham was a strange man. He figured he must be in his mid thirties, given how long his education would have taken and the time it would take to reach his position, plus he read online that he had previously been a surgeon, working in Paris and London. Apparently he was the youngest medical student ever to be admitted to St Marie, Paris, where he interned by taking care of cadavers. He was well-travelled, well-cultured, altogether well everything. Pristine, perfect, everything Hannibal was not. He envied him, he couldn't deny it. It seemed that Dr William Graham excelled in everything he tried his hand at. Hannibal had noticed a framed picture on one wall with his signature on, showing that he was an artist too, and through internet research found out that he was a much admired philanthropist who attended charity concerts and held extravagant dinner parties in his Baltimore home. His life was so polished that Hannibal couldn't help but wonder if there was something lurking beneath the glossy surface. 

Probably not. Dr Graham had given him no reason to suspect him as an unsavoury character.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal gets called to a crime scene and has a minor panic attack. He instinctively turns to Dr Graham.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *WARNING* Violence and rape described in this chapter, not involving Hannibal or Will.

The fur tickling his nose was too long and fluffy to be any cat other than Basil, his long haired moggy who looked to have some persian in him. He required frequent brushing and the occasional wash that he diligently sat through but whinged frequently with long, forlorn cries until he was dried off with a towel in front of the fireplace and given some nibbles. He'd still glower at Hannibal for the rest of the day whenever he was bathed, though. 

“What do you want?” Hannibal mumbled, cracking an eye open to look at Basil, who just stared at him silently before shoving his nose against Hannibal's. “Hey, fur-ball, careful.” 

He sat up in bed, rolling his shoulders and stretching his arms to the symphony of pops and groaning joints. The alarm clock hadn't gone off yet, and he hadn't had a nightmare or inexplicable forceful shove into consciousness at a cruelly early hour. The clock said it was 06:53. He took it as a good sign that he was awake early naturally. Maybe it meant he would have a good day, for once. 

He absently stroked his fingers through Basil's fur for a while before getting up and going through his basic routine of shower, brush, and shave, all the while contemplating what kind of morning routine Dr Graham had. The man probably used fancy skin creams and had the most expensive razor in existence, by the look of his boyishly smooth skin and stubble free jawline. Hannibal dragged his eyes over his own tired, lined face and hair that was more grey than colour, now. Well, it was to be expected, he was forty-five, after all. 

It irritated him that he was comparing himself to his psychiatrist. It wasn't healthy to compare oneself to anyone, let alone a man like Dr Graham. He still did it, though, as he dressed in a plaid shirt, navy jumper and jeans. His glasses returned to their position low on the bridge of his nose, and he made a cup of instant coffee, the thought that Dr Graham would drink only the finest, fresh roast tickling the back of his mind until he batted it away and sat down to his coffee and the morning news. 

“...victim is female, as yet unidentified. Police have given no details.” 

Hannibal froze when the newsreader delivered her piece in monotone. A local homicide. He might be called in, but probably not. Jack would call him if - 

His cell phone rang out loud and incessant. As if the bastard was psychic, it was none other than Jack Crawford. He answered reluctantly.

“Hello?”

“Hannibal, we need you on scene, Beverly is texting the address,” Jack said without preamble, and hung up. Rude.

Sighing, he finished his coffee and dumped the mug in the sink, feeding the felines before grabbing his jacket to go. Beverly's message waited on his phone, and he arrived on scene forty five minutes later. She greeted him herself, leading him to the body, left sprawled behind a dumpster and partially concealed by a tarp. Lazy work at best. He wasn't sure why he was needed, the killer couldn't be that hard to find if this was his best work. Oh, Jesus, he was becoming a murder snob. 

“Vic's about thirty, she's a prostitute. He raped her before cutting her throat,” she explained.

“No semen or saliva?” he asked.

Beverly shook her head, “He didn't rape her like that. He used a broken bottle, there are shards in what's left of her vagina.”

Inwardly, Hannibal shuddered, closing his eyes for a brief moment to collect himself. This was going to be a nightmare of a case, he knew it. He had no desire to think like a man who would violate women so brutally, but he had no desire to think like criminals in general, he just happened to be cursed with the ability and using it to benefit society. It was of no benefit to him, that was certain.

He crouched down to get a closer look at her face, which was turned to the side, one cheek pressed into the dirty ground, her brown eyes open and caught in a horrified stare in death, her mouth hanging open. There were fibres caught in her teeth and stuck to her lipgloss. He'd gagged her.

Gently, her turned her head to get a proper look at her face, and recoiled, stumbling backwards and landing hard on his backside. 

“Hannibal?” it was Beverly again. She rushed to him and offered her hand to help him up, but he was stuck, staring at the body, at her face. 

“What's going on over there?” Jack called. Beverly shrugged her shoulders at him and he came over just as Hannibal was picking himself up.

“I uh, I need to go, I'm going,” Hannibal muttered and pushed past Jack, ignoring his protesting shouts and Beverly's concerned calling. 

When he was out of earshot he pulled his phone from his pocket and dialled the first number on his speed dial. 

“Hannibal?” his sister answered four rings later.

“Mischa,” he breathed, relieved to hear her voice. He knew it was crazy, knew it wasn't her, but the victim looked so much like his little sister he'd been thrown. He had to hear her voice, had to know she was ok, even though there was no way it could be her, given that she still lived in Lithuania. 

“Are you ok? You sound dreadful,” she talked to him in Lithuanian, and so he instantly made the change back to his mother tongue, his thoughts coming in the same language. It didn't matter if anyone could overhear, they wouldn't be able to understand him, any way.

“I'm fine, fine, I was just – I missed you.”

“I miss you too, Hannibal. I'm coming over next month, remember?”

Of course, he remembered. He'd been looking forward to Mischa's bi-annual visit for ages. 

“Yeah, I know. Are you ok? Are the kids ok?” he still called his niece and nephew kids even though they were nearly adults. 

“We're fine, but I can tell you aren't. Want to tell me what's got you so panicked?”

He sighed, dragging a hand over his mouth. “I'm at a crime scene. The victim looks like you... it got at me.”

“But it's not me, I'm alive and well and in another country, so you have nothing to worry about. Shouldn't you get back to work?”

“I should. I just needed to hear your voice.”

He heard the smile in Mischa's voice when she answered, “Go catch a bad guy, big brother.”

They said their goodbyes and he spent a few moments breathing to calm himself down. Beverly appeared next to him silently, sipping at a soy latte. 

“Feeling better?” she asked casually, not a trace of judgement or reprimand in her voice. He liked Beverly, she didn't treat him like a freak.

“Taip, daug. Atsiprašome apie prieš,” he answered, receiving a baffled look in response. 

“What now?”

“I'm sorry, I was talking to my sister. Switching between languages, it's hard, sometimes,” he explained. “I said I'm better, and sorry about before.”

“Hey, no biggie, we all do it sometimes. First time I've seen you like that though. Sure you're ok?”

“Yeah, yeah, I'll be fine.”

“Cool, well, if you're ready, we could really use your help on this one.”

Another reason he liked Beverly: she didn't pry.

*** 

_The tarp was just there, I didn't bring it, but it was convenient. I like people to see them, see the girls, see what I did, but I didn't want anyone to see her while I was getting away. I didn't completely cover her, I didn't want to hide her face. It was just so beautiful in death, in a way she had never been in life._

He'd stalked her, following her for a few days, getting familiar with her area. She picked up johns from the street, taking them to this alley when they didn't have a car or a motel room. She needed the cash ever since she'd gotten hooked on heroin, the only thing that made life bearable these days. The alley was behind a disused building and there were no stores nearby, so there wasn't a lot of pedestrian traffic nearby. It was the perfect place for a twenty dollar blowjob. It could buy her a cheap hit.

He saw her leaning against a wall with feigned nonchalance, smoking an acrid smelling cigarette that permeated her clothing, her hair. She stank of cheap perfume and mildew. Her fraying denim skirt barely covered her crotch, but that was the point, wasn't it? Tease punters with the goods, get them riled up and interested. He was riled up. 

She had the right hair colour. Dark blonde, from a bottle, but still, blonde. Blonde was good. 

“Hey baby,” she called to him when he emerged from the shadows, letting her catch his eye. “Wanna party?”

He looked around, and she thought nothing of it. Johns did it all the time. They didn't want to get caught with a whore.

“How much?” he asked as she stubbed her cigarette out on the brick.

“Twenty for oral, fifty for the full ride. You got somewhere in mind?” she flirted, her eyes slightly glazed. She'd had a hit today already, but it was wearing off and she was wearing thin.

“Here's fine,” he answered gruffly, and she gave him a smile and disappeared into the alley, sashaying her narrow hips enticingly. She'd have been a good one, back in the day. Narrow hips were always good.

_She doesn't see it coming when I slam her head into the wall. Not hard enough to knock her out, but hard enough to have her insensible. I want her awake. I want her aware. I gag her with her panties and tape over her mouth. When it's over I pull the gag off and listen to her gurgled gasps until they stop. This is my design._

*** 

He did his thing. He saw. He understood. He explained.

And then he drove away faster than necessary and found himself standing at the door of Dr Graham, knocking urgently. He was answered moments later, but Dr Graham didn't look surprised when he saw Hannibal standing there, quite the opposite: he looked as if he'd been expecting him.

“Hannibal, come in,” he held the door open and Hannibal walked inside without a word.

“You knew I was coming,” it sounded like an accusation, even to him, but it garnered no negative reaction from the doctor. 

“I had a feeling that you may, Jack called and said you had a problem on scene today.”

“Of course he did,” Hannibal scoffed. “Can't have his favourite teacup chipped.”

He happened to be looking at Dr Graham's mouth when it quirked up at one corner, the barest hint of a smirk.

“Do you want to sit down?” the doctor offered in his charming British accent.

Hannibal shook his head and paced, agitated and wired, his muscles tense and jaw tight. He was still thrumming with the resonant adrenaline the killer had felt as he took the woman's life, scraps of the sickening arousal twinging in his gut and twisting the fury at his – the killers – predicament. He was a serial rapist, but one of his victims fought back and he'd lost the ability to gain an erection, hence his vile violation of the woman. Hannibal had linked the killing to another that had occurred a month before hand, when a woman was raped with a different implement and stabbed to death. 

“You were on scene today, I heard,” it was the perfect moment for the doctor to snap him out of his thoughts. He couldn't handle thinking further about the savagery he'd witnessed first-hand courtesy of his 'gift'. 

“Jack called me in this morning. Victim was a prostitute, and she happened to look just like my sister,” Hannibal explained.

“A very distressing situation to be in,” Dr Graham acknowledged calmly. “It's deeply affected you, I see.”

“She could have been her twin. Her hair colour, her eyes, her nose, everything was the same, she just didn't have freckles and she was bigger but she looked so much like her that I just, I just couldn't look at her without seeing Mischa, so I left the scene,” Hannibal hadn't stopped pacing, hands flying wildly in the air. Dr Graham stood before his desk but did not lean on it, watching his patient expend his residual energy.

“Where is Mischa now?” 

“In Lithuania. I moved here a long time ago but she stayed, got married, had children. We inherited our childhood home from our parents and she lives there now with her husband.”

“How long has she been married for?”

“She's thirty nine this year, so... it will be her seventeen year anniversary in October.”

“A long and successful marriage,” Dr Graham commented.

“Mischa always wanted a family of her own, especially after our parents died. She and her husband are childhood sweethearts.”

“You're very fond of her, aren't you?”

“She's my sister, of course I am.”

“But not everybody is close to their siblings. We can't choose our family.”

“If we could, I'd still choose Mischa,” Hannibal said. “You're distracting me, aren't you?”

“You've stopped pacing, your speech has slowed back to a normal rate, and you're visibly less tense. I'd say it worked,” Dr Graham answered. 

“You're good, I'll give you that,” Hannibal chuckled weakly, running a hand through his hair. 

“Very gracious of you. Now, perhaps we can sit down, and talk about today?” Dr Graham said even as he sat down himself, probably knowing that Hannibal would follow suite and take the opposite chair, which he did.

Taking a moment to properly look at Dr Graham – as best he could while avoiding actual eye contact and being studied by the doctor in return – he noticed that he had a small cut on his hand with a butterfly stitch over it. 

“Accident?” he asked before he could contain his curiosity. 

Dr Graham looked surprised and slightly uncertain, but only briefly, a slight slip in his mask of composure before it was back firmly in place, tightened just a little bit. He glanced down at his hand and smiled a peculiar smile. 

“I cut myself with a knife last night whilst cooking. I was in a hurry, and didn't pay close enough attention to what my hands were doing. I'm afraid I was showing off for company and ended up making a fool of myself instead,” his lips still hadn't lost that smile, it played at the corners of his mouth ever so slightly, imperceivable to most but Hannibal was nothing if not observant of little details.

“Strange place to cut yourself, most people catch their fingers, or thumb. How did you manage to get yourself there?” he couldn't help himself. The cut was positioned on the back of his hand below the knuckle of his little finger. A very strange place to get in the way of a knife.

“As I said, I wasn't paying attention, and my hand slipped. Are you interrogating me, Hannibal?” there was a hint of amusement to the doctors voice, as if the idea of Hannibal interrogating him was a hilarity only he understood.

“I'm sorry, no, I just get caught up in small details,” Hannibal shook his head, feeling half a fool. 

“That's what makes you such an excellent profiler, though, isn't it? You see every detail, including ones invisible to everyone else.”

“They're not invisible, they're just... harder to see. I know how to look, that's all.”

“Many a profiler would kill for your ability.”

“Many a profiler would kill themselves if they had my 'ability'. It's a curse.”

“Do you really feel that way?” Dr Graham asked, brushing lint off the knee of his suit. Hannibal studied his shoes. They were very nice shoes, Italian leather, no doubt coming with a hefty price tag. He wondered how much money Dr Graham was clothed in, and proceeded to ask himself how much was due to his expensive taste, and how much was a shield. Not a shield, no. Dr Graham wasn't the kind of man to need to defend himself from others. Not a shield, a... a - 

“Hannibal?” 

He looked up, surprised, before realising he'd lost himself in his head again. “I'm sorry, what?”

“I asked if you really thought your empathic ability was a curse. Most would say it is a gift,” the doctor reiterated. 

“The people who think it's a gift are the ones who don't have it. How would you like to have a psychopath in your head?” 

“I can't imagine it's pleasant.”

“Imagine having numerous psychopaths there. Killers, rapists, child molesters... Jack throws these people at me, and they cling on. They get their claws into me and they don't let go.”

“We'll just have to make them let go, then, won't we?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr Graham lets himself into Hannibals life, and Hannibal doesn't shut the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh I'm so sorry guys I know this is terrible I have no idea what I'm even doing. I swear it's gonna get better. It's a slow-build fic apparently, and I didn't intend it to be as long as it's going to be. Seriously I thought this would be a few chapters at most but nope my brain had other plans.   
> For updates you can find me on tumblr here: blood-freckles.tumblr.com

Sizzling flesh is a sweet symphony to his ears, sweeter even than the lilting Bach melody providing his musical backdrop, sweeter still than the cries of the man whom had so kindly given his body over to be cut up, ground down, and stuffed into his own intestines. The recipe was his take on Minnesota Bratwurst, when and how it got that name, he was unsure, but a German-American recipe seemed suitable.

The lean shoulder meat had been ground down into the finest mixture possible, and then mixed with marjoram, celery seeds, nutmeg, cardamon, mace, and onion, seasoned with kosher salt and black pepper, before being shaped into sausages, allowed to air dry for a day, and finally cooked in his pan with virgin olive oil. His cooking truly was an art form, and a labour of love. He never cut corners, only steaks.

William turned the sausages in the pan, the aroma delightful, tingling his sensitive nose. He breathed in deeply, the action reminding him of when he had scented Hannibal Lecter the first time he entered his life via his office. Human meat was a lovely aroma indeed, but living, breathing Hannibal Lecter was sweeter still. Beneath the pungent odour of his cheap aftershave, his skin had smelled divine. Musky but saccharine, the sour tang of sweat a sharp counterpoint. He had near salivated.

Hannibal was a fascinating creature. He wasn't quite broken but he was far from whole, shot through with deep cracks and crevices. He was a dream to William, something malleable, something he could manipulate with ease. He was captivated, truly, and it had been a long, long time since anyone had held his interest so wholly. Not since Abigail. 

The first time they met, Hannibal had been guarded, on the defence, but that was to be expected. The second time – the very next day, he should be so lucky – he was the complete opposite. He'd already let one psychopath into his mind, it was easy for him to sneak in through the still-open doorway, trickling inside like corrosive fluid, acid.

He was thrilled by the notion that he might – would, he wanted it, and so he would have it – explore Hannibal's mind thoroughly and craft it into something resplendent. Effulgent though it was, it needed some help to reach it's full potential.

While his mind was of great intrigue to William, his physical being was just as tempting. Hannibal was an attractive man, underneath the shoddy clothing and cat hairs. William had counted no less than four different kinds on his person, and shuddered at the thought of the man sharing his home with not only one, but numerous felines. While he didn't have anything against cats, the lure of pets was beyond him. He had killed countless domesticated animals as a child, before moving onto larger prey. 

Will didn't often indulge his sexual desires, but then, it was not often he experienced them, and when he did it was something to be taken care of swiftly, with efficiency, and alone. Rarely did he wish to partner with somebody, but Hannibal, he was different. There was a killer of his own design lurking in that brilliant mind amidst the scraps of secondhand insanity, and Will wanted it in the most consuming way. He would be perfect, when William was through with him. 

Though physically attractive, Will knew he could break that chaotic mind of his and sculpt it into something equally glorious. He could see violent energy thrumming through Hannibal's veins as it was, a certain primal quality that had his nerve endings humming with anticipation. He would guide Hannibal to the proverbial edge, have him thinking it was his own doing, the aftermath of using his empathy, and then he would push him over. It would only take the slightest shove, if done right, and Hannibal would be none the wiser to any external influence.

He fantasized that Hannibal would be the first person he showed his true self to, without henceforth killing him. A foolish thing to do, but he so rarely indulged his imagination in such follies that he allowed it this time, because he was certain he could reach his goal. He wouldn't fail. Hannibal would be his.

What Hannibal needed was security, comfort. He had desperately few people in his life, even if it was by his own design, but William knew that he had attempted to connect to others in the past and came up short when nobody had been quite sure how to handle his uniqueness. To Hannibal his differences were hamartia, to William, they were the opposite. He was exactly the kind of person Hannibal needed in his life; somebody who would unconditionally accept him, who would, in fact, encourage him to embrace the darkness that lurked within him, the darkness that so frightened him. 

There was only so long one could deny their nature before the denial turned on them and released what slithered beneath the surface.   
William would firmly plant himself in Hannibal's life as his one source of comfort, his reassuring point of strength. But he would also allow Hannibal to believe that he needed him, too, because Hannibal was a man who needed to be needed, even though his isolated lifestyle suggested otherwise, his hoard of cats spoke volumes.

There was also the fact that he desired control, lusted for it, really. He was so out of control of his own self that having control in another area of his life, or over someone else, would not only benefit him but benefit William. He imagined that he could turn Hannibal into a ferociously passionate lover. He was not fond of people attempting even a dram of control over him, but there were certain benefits to be gained from temporary, controlled exchanges of power, and there was only one place he would allow for that to happen. 

Smirking at his own devious thoughts, William took the meat off the burner and started on the eggs, a fairly simple but nonetheless delicious side for the succulent sausages. There was beauty to be found in the understated. Hannibal proved that theory. 

The food prepared, he split it into two portions and contained it, still warm. It wouldn't be when he arrived at Hannibal's house, but he could reheat it in the heatproof containers once there. 

Before leaving, he checked over his appearance in the large antique baroque style mirror in the entrance hall, shifting a soft curl here, smoothing a line of his suit there. He was not a vain man, but neither was he blind to his own appeal. He knew his aesthetic beauty could work well in his favour in most situations, and so he exploited it when necessary. It was surprising how many people second-guessed a man with a fair face. Humanity as a whole had the asinine assumption that what is lovely to look upon cannot be anything but pure. Many a person had ended up in his refrigerator as a result of their own stupidity in thinking he was as pretty inside as he was on the outside. 

Exteriors do not mirror interiors. 

He smiled at himself.

***

“Dr Graham?” Hannibal blinked blearily at him, shielding his deep-set eyes from the sun with one hand. His gaze landed somewhere around William's left ear. 

The door was open just enough for him to see out but not to allow entry to anyone else. Through the gap, William could see that he was wearing only boxer shorts and a ratty grey t-shirt. On anyone else, he would turn his nose up at such undignified sleepwear, but on Hannibal, it was somewhat... endearing, if not predictable. Maybe he would buy him some good quality pyjamas as a present, sometime, but given what Hannibal had told him of the sweats that accompanied his nightmares, perhaps finer nightwear would be a waste on him until he could get those terrors contained and vanquished.

“Good morning, Hannibal. May I come in?” he asked politely, however, there was no other option as he would not be refused. 

“Sure, let me just go put some clothes on,” Hannibal muttered, looking down at himself as if only just realising he was standing in his underwear before his psychiatrist. “Have a seat. Oh, and sorry, about the cat hair.”

He hadn't accounted for the cats in his excitement at seeing Hannibal in his own environment. It was both exactly what he had expect, and a disappointment, though he wasn't sure of the reasons behind the latter. There was a black cat curled up in one corner of the worn-out, cat-scratched sofa. Leather would best serve an owner of furry animals, so that they could be wiped down quickly, and hair would not cling to leather like it did to other fabrics, but unluckily for him, the sofa was not leather.

A dining table for two that likely rarely seated a guest lurked beneath the window, its chairs wooden. He brushed one down with his pocket square and made a mental note to have it dry-cleaned as he sat down and placed the paper bag containing the breakfast on the table. Hannibal returned a moment later wearing jeans and the same unsightly t-shirt. Why such an attractive man insisted on clothing himself in such shoddy rags was beyond even William's impressive intellect.

“What's that?” Hannibal asked, gesturing at the bag.

“I made breakfast,” William explained. “You're looking rather thin for a man of your stature, I thought I might try and rectify that.”

“Dr Graham, you don't have to feed me, I'm pretty sure that doesn't fall under a psychiatrists list of responsibilities,” he protested, stifling a yawn behind one fist and stretching the other arm in the air. His shirt rucked up and exposed a strip of skin above his waistband, a trail of dark hair disappearing into it. 

“Please, call me William,” he insisted, standing and taking the containers from the bag. “Could I please use your oven? This would be best served warm.”

“Yeah, it's just...” Hannibal threw his hand in the direction of the kitchen. “I'll make some coffee.”

“There's a thermos in the bag. It's a beautiful roast, and will go excellently with the food,” William answered quickly, unsure of what kind of instant abomination Hannibal called coffee. There was no coffee machine in the kitchen, or a carafe in sight. It did not bode well for his tastebuds. 

“Oh, well, I'll get cups, then,” Hannibal looked bewildered, freshly roused from sleep and thrown by company. When William passed the bedroom, he noticed that there were towels on the bed. Hannibal had had another nightmare, so he'd likely woken up and struggled to get to sleep again. Good. He would be more susceptible to influence in his sleep deprived state. 

He looked exhausted, as he grabbed two white mugs from one cupboard and two plates from another. The food was warming and a cat was staring at William, its green eyes fixed on him. He returned the stare and received a venomous hiss in return.

“I'm sorry, I don't know what's gotten into her, Delilah is usually very well behaved,” Hannibal apologised. “They're just not used to strangers, is all.”

“You have a lot of cats, I see.”

Hannibal smiled softly, and William stored the smile away. It was the first real smile he'd seen on the mans face. 

“Six in total, the others are knocking around somewhere. Delilah's the oldest, she'll be fifteen soon.”

William smiled and nodded, as if information about his precious cats interested him. Cats. They were strange creatures, sensitive to what most humans could not detect, like the lingering smell of someone elses blood and fear, or the emptiness behind William's blue eyes. 

“You look tired, have your nightmares been plaguing you?” 

Sighing, Hannibal scrubbed a hand over his weary face, shoulders loose and limp. “I dreamed about her again. The prostitute, Jessica, only she was Mischa when she was a teenager. I was the killer. Not, not Kurt Harris, but me, completely me. It was... awful.”

“Why was she a teenager?”

“When Mischa was thirteen she caught pneumonia and nearly died. She fell into a river in November during a particularly harsh winter, and the current swept her away. She was in there for too long, we couldn't keep up. She managed to grab hold of a tree root until we got to her.”

“It must have been traumatic for you, to come so close to losing somebody you love so dearly.”

“Traumatic doesn't quite cover it. I blamed myself. I should have been watching her.”

“You still blame yourself,” William observed. His guilt for his sister was transferring to the dead prostitute that looked like her.

“I guess I do. She was in a coma for weeks, and I never left the hospital once, not even to go outside. They had to set up a spare bed in the room with her,” he chuckled weakly. “I was determined to be the first one she saw when she woke up, but I was asleep when she finally came to, and my mother was there.”

Checking his wristwatch, William saw that the food would be warmed through just right by now, and proceeded to remove the containers and plate the portions. He gave one to Hannibal and they carried the food to the table, two mugs filled with coffee awaiting them. He added a small amount of cream – again, brought from home – into his, but Hannibal drank his black and sugarless. He made an appreciative noise in the back of his throat at the first mouthful, eyes closing in delight. It pleased William. 

“Thanks, for all this, even if it is uncalled for. This coffee is the best I've had in, well, probably the best I've drank period, actually,” Hannibal complimented, setting his mug down and picking up a fork. Now that he was fully awake, he realised he was ravenous, having neglected to feed himself properly the day before. The nightmares took it out of him, too.

Watching with barely concealed anticipation, an electric thrill sparked through William as he watched Hannibal take the first bite of sausage. His first human meal. He felt a warmth spread through him in satisfaction, and a hunger that would not be sated with food. Hannibal had particularly pouty lips that wrapped around his fork in the most sinful way, the act altogether pornographic. 

“You're welcome. I must admit I had another motive for coming here besides your health. You missed an appointment yesterday, and I was concerned about you.”

A groan that was not unpleasant to the ears sounded from Hannibal before he swallowed his mouthful. Good, he had some table manners, at least. He could build on those.

“I'm so sorry, Jack had me working all night, it completely slipped my mind,” he apologised. Missing an appointment was, usually, an unforgivable slight to William, but rather than be angry with Hannibal, he started wondering which parts of Jack Crawford would be best harvested. 

“He keeps you busy. He had told me that you were only called on occasionally.”

“We seem to have an influx of especially deranged killers right now. A body was caught in some rocks in the Potomac River. It's a body dump, but a sloppy one, we're still working on it. River washed away any evidence but the girl was missing her head, breasts, and uterus. Whoever killed her had only basic knowledge of anatomy and didn't even use surgical tools.”

“Who killed her?” William asked, watching Hannibal chew through more human.

“I said we didn't know his name yet.”

“You don't know his name, but you know who did it.”

Frowning, Hannibal finished the last of his coffee. “An ex-boyfriend. I think she had an abortion and he was, in his mind, avenging his unborn child. He cut out her uterus because he thought she didn't deserve it, cut off her breasts because she didn't need them to nurse a child, and cut off her head because her brain made the decision to kill – abort – his child.”

It was a fascinating thing, watching the influence of this killer creep into Hannibal's mind. He could see it, in his eyes, in the tightening of his hand around the fork. Could hear it in the subtle notes of fury in his voice and use of the word 'kill' before he corrected it to abort. He could smell it, too, the anger, seeping from his pores, bitter and hot.

“Anyway, I'd rather not talk about murder over breakfast. This is delicious, by the way, what kind of sausage is it?”

“Minnesota Bratwurst, I made it myself. The meat is a blend of pork and beef shoulder cuts.”

Small remnants of the killer remained behind Hannibal's eyes, but he was distracted enough to be mostly himself. While seeing the changes in Hannibal was captivating, William wanted nothing more than to see the real killer in Hannibal, not a hitchhiker. 

There was no doubt that he had a great potential. In the week he had known him, William had extensively researched the man, reading through every single note in his lengthy psychiatric files and speaking to his former therapists. They all said the same thing: Hannibal had the potential to be extremely dangerous. They all were quick to tell William that he should not be profiling for the FBI, that it would be safer for him to stick to teaching, because his ability to empathise so completely was a risk to his own waning sanity. 

Feigning concern, he had said that he was attempting to have Hannibal refuse Jack Crawford's requests, while really, he planned on pushing Hannibal towards every crime scene possible. While his ultimate goal was to have the man fall apart, he was also front row and centre to see the process. Whenever possible, he planned on accompanying Hannibal to crime scenes to observe his fall first hand.

“Do you think the killer is a religious zealot, perhaps?” William suggested.

“Hmm?” Hannibal looked up, fork part way to his mouth. “Oh, I guess he could be... actually, he almost definitely is. One moment,” he went to the bedroom and returned with his cell phone held to his ear. “Jack, have we ID'd the – ok, then take her picture to every local church and see if she's recognised. I think her murderer is an ex-boyfriend, strongly against abortion, and a regular at church. Chances are she would have attended with him, and the priest or another goer might recognise her, and be able to tell us who the boyfriend was.”

The assertive attitude was very much unlike Hannibal, and so William chalked it up to being part of the influence still riding on his heels.   
“It's interesting, that your subconscious dreamed about the prostitute, and not this murder,” William commented, watching Hannibal pocket his phone.

“What?”

“You saw a gruesome scene yesterday and yet you seem barely affected by it, which is unlike you. Your mind returns instead to the murder of the prostitute. Is it simply because she resembled your sister, or is it something else?”

“What else would it be? I don't control my nightmares.”

“No, they control you.”

***

With his mind distracted by thoughts of the killer he was attempting to find and the lack of sleep, Hannibal was agreeable to most anything William said. He told him to drop by his office that evening to make up for the missed session yesterday, and he agreed to it. He suggested that he felt guilty for not seeing his sister regularly, and that was why he dreamed of her, and Hannibal agreed to that too. 

He had understood from the moment Hannibal told him about his sister that she would be an important piece in his manipulation of the profiler. He was as yet unsure how she would come into play but was fairly certain that she would, and knowledge of her existence was nothing if not useful. If his coercion of Hannibal did not take the smooth path he intended it to, using loved ones against somebody was a fail safe option. 

Hannibal even agreed to let William accompany him to work, even though his planned work was to examine the body again. 

“I am no stranger to death, Hannibal,” he had said, allowing Hannibal to think he was referring to his past as a surgeon and medical training working with cadavers. “I may even be of use to you.”

The morgue was a morgue like any other. Hannibal introduced him to Beverly Katz, who seemed surprised at Williams presence.

“I don't think she's going to be needing psychiatric help, Dr Graham, she's quite dead,” Beverly said, coaxing a small smile from William. They had a good relationship, then.

“I was a surgeon before I was a psychiatrist, I thought I may be able to offer some insight,” William responded. “May I?” 

“Knock yourself out,” Beverly replied, leaving them alone in the room. 

Hannibal opened the compartment where the body was stored. It was an unpleasant corpse, water logged, pale, and clumsily killed. 

“She was alive when her breasts and uterus were removed,” he said to Hannibal. “Her head was the last thing to be removed. It looks like he used three different blade to detach it from the body. The marks are damaged from the bodies' time in the water but you can see here, here, and here,” he pointed to different sections of the neck. 

“What did he use?”

“A kitchen knife, a handsaw, and an axe. He used the kitchen knife to remove her uterus – very poorly, I might add, he damaged various organs in doing so. This was not a precise crime, it was done in passion,” he added. “He used the same knife to remove her breasts – before removing her uterus, I believe – and then he cut her throat. He tried to use the saw to detach her head but it was not sturdy enough, and so he resorted to using an axe. He did not plan for that; the axe was blunted and has seen previous use, so perhaps it was just something he had in his car by chance, or it would have had a sharper blade if he had intended to use it.”

“You're good,” Hannibal murmured, eyes on the corpse. Apparently he preferred to look at a mutilated body than make eye contact. 

“Thank you. What are you thinking?”

“I'm thinking that the ME found wood chips in her neck. We thought it was debris from the river, but when you mentioned the axe... now, I think maybe he uses the axe on trees. Maybe he's a gardener, or something.”

“It's worth looking into, I suppose.”

“I've been so distracted by the Mischa thing that I've missed so much. Thank you, Dr Gra – William, you're helping, a lot. I doubt I would have given the wood chips a second thought.”

“I'm just glad to be of use to you, Hannibal. I like helping you.”

Hannibal looked up at that, just briefly. His eyes very nearly met with William's own, looking at his cheekbone instead. That weak smile fluttered at his lips again, just teasing the corners ever so slightly. He doubted that anyone else ever tried to help Hannibal, and he was glad of it. There would be nobody to compete with his for Hannibal's attention, and if he made himself readily available to the man whenever he needed help, or somebody to talk to, he knew that it would not take long at all until Hannibal was his.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal finds himself in need of a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay, I have a lot going on right now and haven't had a chance to indulge in writing this. Updates will likely be sporadic.

In his experience, psychotherapy went something like this: he talked awkwardly about his many flaws, and a psychiatrist feigned interest and made the occasional comment. The experience as a whole was uncomfortable and useless, serving only to increase his anxiety levels for the remainder of the day because he had spent so long talking of his inadequacies that they were all he could think about. His lectures would be patchy, his limited social contact worse than usual, and he would feel terrible about himself. Well, he'd feel worse about himself than he usually did.

Dr Graham didn't made him feel bad about himself. He didn't leave him to try and 'talk through' his issues. He engaged him in conversation, talked perhaps even more than he did, which was impressive, as William had a way of coaxing him to talk without directly telling him to. He just... talked. It had been a long time since he'd been able to talk to anyone like he did with William. He had stopped talking so freely with his sister long ago out of concern for her own mental wellbeing. She didn't need to hear about his crazy. She'd grown up with it.

He didn't just talk about the crazy thing, though. They discussed the vengeful ex-boyfriend case briefly – they'd caught him, his name was Paul Martin and he was a gardener – before moving onto other topics. He found himself talking further about Mischa, about Lithuania, his parents, his childhood. When William asked him about his relationship with his parents, he had snapped something at him about lazy psychiatry before feeling guilty and apologising. Their session felt more like a long conversation with a friend, and that was disconcerting. Hannibal didn't have friends.

His next session was much the same. They talked, Hannibal forgot where he was, he even laughed a few times and managed to make eye contact once.

“You're a smart man, Will.” he'd said, and looked up into his eyes, maintaining eye contact for a few heartbeats. Will's eyes were a beautiful shade of lapis lazuli, framed by dark eyelashes and nary a line in sight. He looked away when he realised what he'd done. He'd called him Will. As far as he knew, nobody called him Will, it was a casual shortening of his name that Hannibal had no right to make. 

“You looked me in the eye,” Will had said, sounding just a little surprised, and even... was that pride in the other mans voice? 

That's because I trust you, Hannibal thought. His brain helpfully reminded him that he liked him, too, perhaps more than was appropriate for a patient to like his psychiatrist. 

***

It became routine for Will to show up at Hannibal's house in the morning a couple of times a week with something delicious ready for the table. It was disorientating how suddenly Will was a part of his life, how quickly and painlessly he'd inserted himself into the empty space at his table, by his side at crime scenes, on his sofa when they talked about his nightmares. He had, he realised, come to truly trust his psychiatrist and he'd stopped thinking of him like that, too. Now, Will was his friend, somebody he could share his thoughts with even though his own thoughts sickened him.

It nauseated him to think that they were produced by his own mind, tainted though it was with the influence of many others. There were no walls in his mind, nothing to separate the tasteful from the not-so-tasteful, and that was his problem. He could probably live with his curse if it was sectioned off from the rest of his life, but his brain supplying him with images of what his sister would look like sans uterus, head, and breasts was not, in any way, helpful. 

Because his empathy was a part of him, simply who he was, there was no divide between it and the rest of him, because his mind had never been another way. It was not a useful extension that he could disable when it was not needed. It was there, always there, always working, working against him and ruining his god damned life. 

Nobody understood him, and people tend not to accept that which they cannot fathom. He had learnt long ago that being different caused people to either fear him, pity him, or bully him. He had nobody he could call a friend, and the fault in that lay partly on him because he had just stopped attempting to befriend people. Sure, there was Alana but that was complicated, and she wasn't really a friend, not like Will was...

Will. When had he started calling him that, anyway? The transition from Dr Graham to William had been harder than it should have been, but he had gone one step further taken the liberty to shorten the mans name. That was a friendly thing to do, right? Give somebody a nickname?

Not that he and Will were friends, exactly. But, really, he had forgotten what normal friends did, but eating dinner together and having lengthy conversations seemed to fit into the 'stuff friends do' category, so maybe they were... friends.

Hannibal had a friend. A good one, at that. Will was intelligent, charming, interesting, attractive...

Not that friends cared about what the other looked like but Will was extraordinarily gorgeous, and Hannibal had never cared much to dwell on labels for his own sexuality. 

***

The caller ID said that it was his favourite empath calling him. The clock informed him that it was quarter past three in the morning. He answered, hesitating a moment to listen to the laboured, shuddering breathing on the other side of the line, before pretending to have been sleeping and faking a sleep-roughened voice. 

“Hannibal?”

“I'm sorry Dr Graham, I didn't know who else to call,” Hannibal apologised, sounding distressed, his vowels shivering.

“Are you alright? It's three in the morning.” 

“I'm sorry to wake you,” he didn't bother telling Hannibal that he was already awake and packing organs into his freezer, “but I don't know where I am.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was at Quantico giving a lecture, I blinked, and now I'm somewhere else.”

“You dissociated, Hannibal. Lost time. Do you see anything familiar?”

“I think there's a road nearby.”

“Good, I want you to go to it and wait on the side. What else do you see?”

“Trees,” Hannibal laughed, but it was an awful, hollow sound. 

“Don't worry Hannibal, I'll find you.”

He did find him, thirty minutes later, sat on the ground with his arms folded on top of his knees. He didn't say anything as he helped him up and into the warm car, nor did Hannibal say anything when they drove not to his home in Virginia, but to Will's house in Baltimore. He knew that Hannibal didn't want to talk yet, and so everything that followed occurred in silence. He showed Hannibal to his guest room, offered him use of the en suite and left him alone.

In his own bedroom he thought of Hannibal standing naked in the shower, and with eyes closed he let his hand drift to his erection and brought himself to climax thinking of his favourite patient fucking him against the tiled wall as steam enveloped them in a humid shroud. 

***

He had little use for sleep these days, catching a few hours here and there and waking up refreshed. It was a habit left over from his days as a surgeon, and came in use when he was up all night butchering bodies, storing organs, and collecting strays. His stray was sleeping still, the sheets tangled around his legs and arms flung either side of his body, lending to him the appearance of one who has been crucified. He'd considered waking him, knowing that he had a lecture to give, but instead took the liberty of calling Jack Crawford himself and telling him that Hannibal was unwell and would not be working. 

It was only part tenderness on his behalf. Yes, there was a small part of him that wanted to allow Hannibal to get sufficient rest for once, but there was a larger part who relished the idea of having him in his house, in his bed (if not the one he slept in himself) and at his mercy for the day. Hannibal would be grateful to him, for finding him in the middle of the night and looking after him, and thankful people often think themselves indebted to those they have to thank. 

By allowing Hannibal into his home for the night, he had not only further asserted himself into Hannibal's life, but allowed him deeper into his own, or so it would seem. He had been carefully constructing their friendship on the unsteady foundation of Hannibal's loneliness, using his needs against him. Hannibal wanted somebody who accepted him as he was, and he had no idea just how willing to accept him Will was. He wanted somebody who wasn't afraid of him, and Will did not scare easily. He needed somebody who he could talk to, and their hour-long talks under the guise of psychotherapy served as that. 

Simply put he had made himself exactly what Hannibal needed, and then some. Now he didn't need any of that, he just needed one thing, or rather, one person: William. 

In a minor slip of self-control, he had watched Hannibal sleeping for a short while, standing by the bed and looking down at him. He had looked ten years younger as he slept, his face calm and not reflecting the chaos of the beautiful mind within. The dark shadows beneath his eyes stood out starkly, but much of that was superficial and would disappear with a proper sleep schedule, good food, and a break from stress. He had so much inside of him, so much to contain and control, but he was overflowing, and Will would be there for the flood to save him from drowning.

He had touched him, then, the first time he had done so, gently sweeping his gunmetal grey hair from his forehead and allowing the his knuckles to trail softly over one sharp cheekbone. He did have a remarkable face, all hard, unforgiving angles balanced out by his mourners eyes and plush lips that expressed so much without a single sound.

His shirt had rucked up his abdomen, revealing the taut stomach scattered with sparse dark hair, that tantalising trail still teasing Will as he tracked it to where it vanished into the waistline of his boxer shorts. He kept fit, at least, but he had guessed as much. Hannibal had a certain youthful virility for a man of his age, and so to fight the middle-age tide he would have to dedicate a certain amount of time to his fitness, else he would not have that tightly muscled body to hide beneath his layers of flannel and cotton. 

Carefully, so as not to wake his guest, he had peeled back the sheets in a slow reveal. The muscles in Hannibal's legs were long, lean, and strong; a runners legs. So that was how he stayed in shape, but it was unsurprising, as the solitary pleasure of running outdoors seemed suited to Hannibal's dislike of other people. He'd probably never set foot in a gym in his life. 

It was a risk, to touch him again, but a temptation he had no desire to fight. First, he said his name a few times, but received no response, and so he proceeded to lay his hand flat on Hannibal's muscular thigh. His flesh was warm, firm. His hand glided further down, sweeping the length of his legs from thigh to ankle. He glanced up at his face, which was still smooth in sleep, and then down to his crotch, where his cock was stirring slightly in his shorts.

Oh, but he would love to dive his greedy hands in there and bring him out, take him into his mouth and suck him until he was fully flushed with blood and heavy on his tongue. To see his reaction as he came into consciousness, thinking he was only having a vivid wet dream, but opening his eyes and seeing William with his mouth around him. Perhaps he would refute reality and convince himself he was dreaming.   
His hand crawled upwards, leaving hairs standing upright in its wake, stopping just short of the hem of his underwear. His fingertips barely grazed the fabric. 

He pulled away and covered Hannibal once more, leaving the room and telling his own budding erection to cease it's excitement. By the time he was in the kitchen, he had regained his composure.

Fifteen minutes later he had a sleepy looking guest wandering into his kitchen. He looked terrible, but good, somehow. He was stiff, either from last nights excursions or from his own awkward anxiety, and he didn't look directly at Will.

“Good morning, Hannibal,” Will greeted cheerfully. “Did you sleep well?”

“I did, thanks. Your bed – I mean, the guest bed – is very comfortable, more so than my own,” a faint blush coloured his cheeks. “I couldn't find my phone...?”

“I have it, I didn't want you to be woken earlier than necessary.”

“I have work today,” Hannibal groaned, realisation dawning. “I have a lecture at ten.”

“No, you do not. I called Jack and told him you were not well enough to go to work today, he sends his condolences,” Jack did no such thing. 

“You called in sick for me?” Hannibal asked, sitting at the breakfast bar with Will. 

“As your doctor, I decided it would be in your best interests if you had a chance to recuperate,” Will replied easily. 

“But you're not my doctor, you're my shrink.” Hannibal pointed out, but he smiled as he did, partly in disbelief, partly in amusement. “I can't believe you pilfered my phone and took the day off work for me.”

“I can't believe you're complaining.”

Hannibal grinned then, rubbing a hand through the hair at the back of his head. “I shouldn't really, should I?”

“No, you should thank me and allow me to make you breakfast.”

“A lie-in and breakfast? I must be in heaven,” Hannibal said before his smile slipped and he realised what he had allowed to leave his mouth, unchecked. Will was certain it was a flirtation. Hannibal was flirting with him.

His back was turned when he allowed himself a smirk of triumph before answering. “You may well be. Would you like some coffee?”  
“I'd love some,” Hannibal agreed quickly, grateful for the diversion. 

The morning was a pleasant one, with bright light streaming through the windows as he poured coffee and started on breakfast. Normally he would prepare something a little more lavish than what he had planned, but he wanted Hannibal to feel comfortable, and so he made a simple meal of toasted bagels topped with cream cheese, oak smoked salmon, capers, and finished a sprinkle of dill and fresh lemon juice, with pea shoots on the side. 

He was delighted to see Hannibal eat with relish, even if his manners were a little uncivilised. He managed to keep up with his guest just barely, as he didn't want Hannibal to feel awkward about eating so fast. The things he did for that man. If only he knew.

Two cups of coffee later and Hannibal was bright-eyed and smiling as they talked, Will giving away tidbits of his childhood in England, talking about the boys boarding school he attended, hinting subtly at his romantic involvement with various other students there without directly telling Hannibal that he was not hung up on heterosexuality. 

“What about your family? You never talk about them, and I haven't seen any photographs or anything,” Hannibal asked, ever the observant one.

“My parents live in Surrey, and I have no siblings. I never had a very good relationship with my mother and father, and so we are limited to short phone calls a couple of times a year and I am obligated to return to England at Christmas. It would shame my parents if their only son did not show his face to the rest of the family once a year. They left me in boarding school for my entire childhood, and then I left for medical school in France,” William's voice was a verbal shrug. 

“Have you ever been married?” 

Ah, so Hannibal was testing the waters.

“No, never. Marriage was not for me. What about you?”

Hannibal shook his head, “It's not for me, either. Don't you want a family? Children of your own?”

“I had a child, once. A daughter. She died when she was six.” 

He had not planned on telling Hannibal so soon, but the question was there, and he took a chance. Hannibal looked surprised and saddened, too, ever empathic. 

“I'm so sorry, for your loss, and I – I shouldn't have asked,” he was awkward again, humiliated at himself, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. He wanted to leave, but Will would not let him.

“You did not know,” Will said softly, not wanting to scare him away. He thought about how much he should tell him.

“What was her name?”

“Abigail,” Will smiled. He rarely had reason to say her name aloud any more. “I dated a French girl when I was still in medical school and she fell pregnant. We stayed friends, but she went on to marry another man. His name was Garrett Jacob Hobbs, and he was a serial killer, but we didn't know it, then. The police found out and tried to arrest him, thinking he was alone, but Abigail had been sent home from school because she was sick. He took her hostage, and killed her before killing himself."

When his eyes closed to ward back tears, he surprised himself to find that it wasn't an act. Thoughts of Abigail were one of the few things that could stir emotion in him these days. He saw her clearly in his mind, then, her dark hair shining in the sun, her blue eyes bright with curiosity, and the way her freckled nose would wrinkle when she laughed, loud and unabashedly joyous, in that special way she had.   
He had thought the last remnants of his humanity had followed his daughter to the grave. He was wrong. 

A tentative hand touched his, not trying to hold it – that would be too much – but just a gentle touch to indicate support and sympathy, to bring him back from the reverie he hadn't even realised he was lost in.


End file.
